Crossroad
by agryu
Summary: /ACR/ Paths cross at a myriad of points, and even those centuries apart can blur and bleed.


Author's Note: The remnants of what was supposedly my third _Of Shadows_ story. Schoolwork cut me short, so it's now just set in Masyaf.

Taken down and re-posted since I prefer it as a one-shot :p If you want to continue from what I previously posted though, just find the word "save".

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**Assassin's Creed:** _Crossroad_

It had been almost a week now, spent in the company of little more than the stones and wildlife along the path. The drawn out days it had taken him to cross the hellfire of the desert were still fresh upon his memory and weather-beaten cape, and Ezio was almost grateful to reach the cutting winds of the mountains.

The citizens of Acre had been eager to lend him directions to the abandoned aerie deep within the range, but their warnings had come in equal measure. His grasp of their language had grown tediously in the past months, but the open disbelief and caution that had reflected in their eyes when he spoke the name of Masyaf was clear, even without words. They thought him crazy.

The old Assassin chuckled into the wind at the memory, the sound catching and flitting away nearly as soon as he made it. He did not fear the bandits of the road they had spoken of, but the foreign soldiers supposedly lurking within deserved some caution – if they really did exist. The crumbling fortress he sought had had centuries to weave its rumors and tales of ghosts.

He adjusted the leather pack slung across his shoulder, finding that he had grown as used to it as the weapons set to his side and forearms. He had long become accustomed to carrying his very life on his back, and the weight of the rations and papers and oils for his blades all but seemed a part of him now.

Ezio halted abruptly on a narrow pass against a cliff wall, staring straight forward a moment as the eagle within him raised a fervent call, as if to its kind. He did not believe in phantoms, but knew by now to trust his Sense before his eyes. Still, that did not make the mirage he was seeing any less difficult to grasp.

The indistinct white figure riding past him on a hazy steed vanished before he could concentrate further, and he frowned minutely, still and tensed for several minutes. When the ghost offered no second appearance, the Assassin continued on a little reluctantly, pulling his whipping cloak back over his shoulder as he wondered absently if the isolation was beginning to bear on his sanity.

His first glance of the village was welcome, and he smiled, glad to see that at least some form of eagles still called it their home. The jagged shapes drew circles into the oddly pale sky, their dark feathers marked clearly against the clouds.

Ezio slipped quietly past the imposing barrier of wood that marked Masyaf's entrance, dipping his head as he passed the choice few villagers still on the streets. His eagle's eyes caught their unease, and he tilted his head slightly as he observed their clipped movements, their seeming eagerness to retreat from the open thoroughfares. There were scars of oppression here, but he saw no evidence of its source.

His feet led him to the stronghold as if on an oft-walked path, and the warmth of returning home rose in him, though the sensation was unwarranted. He frowned at the battlements, at the curled steps twisting up towards the towers; unable to grasp why everything felt so familiar. His eagle spirit crooned, seeming to know these skies.

The Assassin drew to a grateful halt on the fields before the age-old fortress, taking in the size of this testament to his Order. He shut his eyes briefly to ease his breath, which was still somewhat labored from the long climb. He was no longer young, he thought shrewdly, still disliking the knowledge.

His senses had sharpened over the years, but his body was not always as quick to respond – which he soon found, and paid for dearly. His eyes shot open as the eagle in him screeched in warning, but he could not even cry out as the arrow slammed deep into his right shoulder, slipping between the folds of his armor, and throwing him back a step.

Ezio's hand flew to the wound as he coiled into a tense stance, his glare darting to either side, then toward the blooded aura of a seeming endless enemy cresting over the hill. He tried and failed to count the threat, only gritting his teeth as the veritable legion advanced swiftly upon him.

Their tabards were marked with a twice-headed eagle, and he stared upon it with confusion, not quite recognizing the insignia. His attention drifted to the peak of the rise, and focused on the single figure not rushing to meet him. He could not see the man's face from this distance, but he only looked to the longbow in the Templar's hand – lowered now, after having fired its shot into him – and mutely promised him that the favor would be returned.

Ezio dragged in a sharp breath and snapped the shaft off the arrow, forcibly relaxing his tensed muscle as the barb cut deep at muscle and flesh. He knew movement would only wind it in all the more, but rest was not a luxury permitted to him. Even as he fought to quell the pain, the bulk of the army swelled into the field before him, and the bravest came forward to take him.

An enemy spear lanced toward his face, and he simply reacted, shrugging off his cloak and pack without a thought, and lunging directly into the flood.

The Assassin caught the haft of the passing spear, pivoting around and prying it from its wielder. He struck a second man in the helm as he spun, barely sliding to a halt before charging forward again.

He impaled another, and swiftly abandoned the weapon in his gasping chest, whirling away from a sword threatening to take his head, and downing the soldier behind it with a vicious kick to the knee. Bone cracked audibly, but Ezio did not bother to watch him fall as he turned to catch the hands of another man, whose broadsword had been raised overhead for a cleaving strike.

He snarled against the protest of his injury as he redirected the blow into the face of a guard beside him, feeling blood splatter the edge of his hood as the blade hewed deep. He threw back the one he had been grappling with, drawing away long enough to release both his hidden blades, and loathing the fact that the air felt as heavy in his lungs as water. He had traveled too long, too hard - the fatigue weighing him was dizzying.

The army had well surrounded him by this point, and he knew that speed was essential, was all that was keeping him alive. The Assassin sprinted deeper into the crowd, cutting throats and helmed eyes as he passed, and evading the swords and bodies that came at him from every direction.

He lent himself to his eagle, his movements driven purely by instinct as he stabbed into enemies he did not see, sidestepped blades he was unsure were even coming. His Sense lit the flow of the soldiers about him, and his breathing gentled as he twisted and struck almost in a dream, slipping ever closer to the cliff edge that overlooked a river, and his method of escape.

He turned gold-dulled eyes to his left as he spun to intercept a sword strike with his secondary blade, but froze for an all too precious second as he saw the white mirage again, startlingly close. The hooded shade glanced at Ezio as it stalked behind the backs of the enemy soldiers, all but stopping his heart.

For a lurched moment, looking upon the ghost was like staring into infinitely reflected mirrors, and he suddenly wondered which was he, younger or elder, white-clad or black. Then his very sight shattered, as if from a thrown stone.

_He circled, his stance a taut bowstring, yet still he could not bear to turn his sword upon the Brothers who faced him; their eyes oddly wide in madness or ire, their expressions a wiped canvas. The Master was responsible, the villager had claimed, but surely not even he was capable of such sorcery—_

Ezio's concentration broke, and his intended counter flew wide.

_The Bureau of Jerusalem came swiftly to his aid, but their thrown knives were no more convicted than his own. The Creed held them all, a conscience that stabbed into them for every strike upon their once-comrades—_

The guard's sword connected heavily against his right forearm, snapping blade from bracer, and painfully jarring his already injured shoulder.

_Agony as one's saber caught him, instinctual retaliation as his eagle spirit keened offense. The other's throat parted, and he felt the weight of body fallen, the stain of spilling the blood of kin—_

He staggered, reeling from the vision that still fogged his mind, and a further blow to the chest drove him into the ground. The packed dirt was startlingly cold against his back, and just as suddenly, the mirage had gone.

Ezio stirred with difficulty, lifting himself onto his elbows in time to take in the half-dozen spears leveled to his face. He stiffened, his breath gasping in his throat, and the eagle of him hissing but still.

The man that had downed him stepped forward almost smugly, standing over him and drawing back his rapier for the killing strike. The Assassin shifted, instinctively readying to counter, but even his uninjured shoulder ached, and could not promise a reaction quick enough to save him.

Suddenly, a barked word halted the soldier, and all turned towards the imposing man who was pushing his way through the crowd. Ezio frowned at the approaching commander, rigidly keeping his gaze level, though he could feel the minute trembling starting in his limbs.

The Templar regarded him a moment, his gaze raking the peak of his hood and the emblem pinned against his chest. Ezio guessed that his reputation preceded him, but there was little chance that they knew what he looked like - if luck graced him, they would dismiss him to be merely a reckless wanderer.

The commander finally seemed to abandon any attempts to recognize him, waving a dismissive hand, and speaking out another order to a few of the nearby soldiers. Ezio vaguely recognized the language as Greek, but the meaning escaped him, and he could only wryly think that at least he need not fear interrogation from these men.

The Assassin was hauled unceremoniously to his feet, though he did not resist, simply retreating behind the shade of his hood, and discretely watching the breath of the relaxing army. They saw him subdued at last, and turned instead to their wounded.

A question was thrown in his direction, but Ezio ignored it, with little intention to speak even should he be able to converse with this man. However, when he noticed that one guard had brought over his abandoned pack, he tensed involuntarily, bristling as the scraps of home he had carried were dumped out onto the ground.

The commander lazily kicked through some of his equipment, before stooping to catch up a piece of paper that Ezio tersely realized was a letter he had scripted a few days ago. The man glanced over the words - likely without comprehension, the Assassin presumed - until a bemused smirk lit on his heavily scarred face.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze, the famed Assassin Mentor of Italia, is it?"

Ezio started visibly - he could not help it, it had been many months since he had heard another speak in his home tongue. To hear the words from an enemy, however, was less than welcome.

"Now don't pretend you cannot understand me," the commander sneered, carelessly tossing the letter to one side as he advanced on the motionless Assassin. "I suppose it was only a matter of time until one of your kind arrived here, but to come alone? I do not know if you are arrogant or stupid – perhaps both, knowing you high-minded jackals."

The term struck him, and Ezio tensed slightly, sickened by the renewed visions.

_The Templar forces had not taken the invasion of their Temple lightly, and had chased after their treasure in droves, as if hounds on a scent. And Malik had led them straight to their home, the fool._

"If you are to kill me, just do so quickly, Templar," the Assassin hissed, the words not quite his own. His eagle spirit lifted its head in uncharacteristic disdain, in an arrogance he had not felt since his youth - a youth that he seemed to be remembering differently.

_The Master had sent his lower-ranked guards into the village, trivial players in the battle honestly, though he supposed he was more than glad to lend them his blade._

Ezio no longer felt himself, and that swayed him more than his wounds.

_The chill anger of missing his chance with de Sable stole him, as did the penetrating shame of his failure, though he would never voice it. The disgrace clawed him from within, but it was the Crusaders who fell and bled for it, who felt its acrid bite._

He grunted sharply as a mailed hand struck his cheek, and he recoiled, more startled at the blow than pained.

"Not the proud Assassin leader I would have expected. You don't exactly live up to the reputation of this fortress," the commander scoffed, and only here did Ezio realize with a measure of shock that he had been straining to reach the Templar, to strike, as if this man had done him all the wrong in the world. "But perhaps hanging your lifeless body from its walls will warn more of your kind from setting foot here."

The Templar calmly gave a signal to his men, who began to drag Ezio backwards, and up to the fortress.

_De Sable's army hemmed in around them, the soldiers unskilled but many, and seeming to press them back by the sheer number of corpses alone. The retreat was called, but his eagle spirit hissed dissatisfaction even as he turned his back on the fires, loath to abandon the promise of meat._

He struck out violently - though fruitlessly - at the men that held him, fueled by impatience and humiliation that he could not explain. In the back of his mind, Ezio blankly realized the foolishness of his struggles, knew that it would be far better to bide his time and choose his opportunity. But his eagle spirit burned in ice, wild and lit by fever-dreams that were not his.

A soldier finally grew impatient with the thrashings of the bound Assassin, and a strike into the back of his head snuffed his vision, both real and imagined.

Ezio regained his thoughts to a splitting headache, and he shifted his arms rigidly, dully recognizing the tight binds of rope at his wrists, and the crackle of dried blood at his shoulder. The mirages had gone for now though, thankfully, as had the rearing emotions.

He lifted himself slightly from the icy stone that had been pressed to his chest, blinking to clear his sight, and belatedly hearing the thud of booted steps drawing near. He had barely raised his head when powerful arms had slipped under his shoulders, and began dragging him across the cobblestones.

The Assassin was silent as they passed through torch-lit hallways, but his brow furrowed slightly when the eagle in him shivered, hackles lifting, though not from the cold. There were whispers in these corridors that none around him seemed to notice, and he glanced to either side agitatedly, trying to understand. Ezio knew - quite suddenly - that he had heard them before.

The very walls dripped with the otherworldly aura of the Pieces of Eden, and he remembered the words of his age-old predecessor, the Mentor who had passed his knowledge through the Codex. The man had spent decades studying the Apple in this fortress, and the stones had apparently not forgotten.

Ezio could not explain it, but it seemed as if memories themselves had seeped into the walls like a varnish, clouding his mind with its heady scent. These hallucinations filled the corridors with ghosts, but also with footsteps and quiet conversation, with cheering voices and dulled blades. It felt as the Tiber headquarters, and that warmed him somewhat.

Ah, but here his eagle again began to bristle with heightened emotion that did not belong to him, and idly, Ezio realized that the white figure that had so persisted him in the mountain range was ever the same, familiar by now. The white robes of the Order from the Holy Land, the impassive expression of an eagle chilled with scorn and confidence. The Son of None…

_He kept on his Brother's heels, only half listening to his words that the Master had a plan, that they need only steal the gullible Templars' attention, and the siege would be won. He knew not what that entailed, but truly, when did any of them know what their mentor intended?_

Ezio was careful not to react as the visions swelled again, threatening to drown him. He focused on his breathing and the cold of the morning wind, holding to himself. A sharp pain in his injured shoulder helped, as the guards at his sides brought him up a winding staircase, towards the tower's peak.

_They watched silently from above. Slaying hostages would not matter, idiotic for the Templars to think that _death_ of all things would sway the Master or his students. De Sable shouted up to the Assassins lining the ramparts, his words thoroughly ineffective, like stones thrown at soaring eagles._

He lifted his still somewhat clouded gaze as the bite of the wind grew vicious, flecks of snow whirling through the open wall of the tower, and settling on the uniforms of the soldiers that filled it, or on the three sets of planks that stretched out into the void.

The commander awaited him at the center, a coil of rope loose in his hand, and Ezio frowned against the small pang of trepidation, of memory, though his own this time. The same noose as that which had snapped the life from his father and brothers, ah the irony. Was he to end the same way?

A gentle brush against his shoulder startled him, and he turned sharply to one side, just in time to see the white figure move past him. The presence was oddly heartening, though the feather-light touch had likely just been the wind.

Steeling himself, Ezio lunged to his feet, startling the guards around him, and prompting an attempt to restrain him again. A lifted hand was enough to still them though, and the Templar merely met the eagle's eyes with amusement and mocking courtesy.

The Assassin stepped past him, head lifted calm to the muted light of the sun masked by the surrounding mountains. Even a push from the impatient commander did not sway him, and he tread upon the ancient planks as if they were solid as stone.

His breath, gentled now, plumed before him as he slowly looked towards his right, to the first set of wood that reached out towards the distant cliff. Altair paced forward next to him, the hooded face turned to him slightly, offering a nod as if in greeting.

"_Do as I do, and do so without hesitation."_

These quiet words lit strength in him, and he knew at once what was needed. The eagle within him took flight in the wake of its Brother, and Ezio smiled, the fear of death never seeming so distant.

Ending.


End file.
